Scholarship Boy
by The Writing Bean
Summary: Set in the Assassin's Guild, some years before Men at Arms.  Due to financial strife, Edward D'Eath must accept a scholarship to continue his studies. He is moved to less comfortable surroundings, and must meet his new roommate. Discworld, feat Teatime.


Edward D'eath stood, bristling with righteous indignation, staring at the old door in front of him.

It just wasn't _fair_.

Judging from what was left of the paint, he surmised that the door had probably originally been the same glossy, elegant black as all the others in the Assassins' Guild - but it had been somewhat neglected. Forgotten. And now it looked, for all the world, like someone had taken a giant cheese-grater to it. He couldn't help but muse on what an apt metaphor it was for his current station. Pathetic fallacy, he supposed, only with a door instead of weather. You see, he was that sort of person - Edward D'eath had a head full of _notions_: full of poetry and songs about heroes and justice and honour and truth and all that nonsense.

He clenched his fists, and thought to himself that it shouldn't have _been_ like this. It just wasn't _right. _A family so high in social standing just _shouldn't_ be so criminally low on funds. _It isn't fair, _he thought, screwing his eyes shut as he felt them begin to burn. _This just… it shouldn't __**be**__ this way. _

And yet, here he was.

"Every cloud has a silver lining," Dr. Cruces had said, in his usual smug way, when Edward had been called to the office "Due to your current familial… situation, Mr. Death,"

_D' Eath_, the boy had thought automatically, but had bitten his tongue, staring gloomily at his feet. "Due to your family's current situation, the tuition fees for the past three terms have remained… *ahem* _outstanding_. Normally, this would result in a student's time with us coming to an end,"  
>Edward remembered inhaling sharply, feeling suddenly lightheaded. The merest flicker of a smirk had passed over Cruces face, before he continued "<em>However<em>. In this particular case, in light of your exceptional academic record heretofore, the Guild has decided to offer you an olive branch, if you will."

He had called him a _very lucky boy_. The audacity! Edward felt the blood rush to his face as he recalled how he'd felt at that terrible, vile meeting – that loathsome man's mocking pity, and the terrible shame he had felt, weeping inwardly for himself and the once-noble house of D'eath. It was hard to believe that it had all happened not but one week ago.

He was now a _scholarship student_.

It didn't bother him that the scholarship boys were subject to mockery (especially by the pampered day students exempt from the black syllabus), as Edward was no stranger to ridicule - his feverish intensity and general seriousness had marked him out as somewhat of a social pariah. And it wasn't as though he would be marked out with one of those ghastly scholarship uniforms, as he had already thrown away his beaver-pelt hat and 'taken dark' (from third year, students were allowed not to look completely ridiculous at all times) some time ago.

No. It was the _principle_ of the thing – the term _scholarship student_ was tainted with connotations of the lower class, of street-urchins who had practiced their craft in seedy back-alley knife-fights. It was an insult to the (once) great house of D'eath. Signifying his decent to the lower social strata, Edward had been cast out from the warm, plush familiarity of the old dormitory, and so found himself standing in front of his door – the last thing between him and plunging headlong into the abyss.

He took a deep breath, and braced himself before slowly reaching out and placing a hand, gingerly, on the doorknob. Before he could turn the handle, the door suddenly swung open, nearly scaring him senseless. Edward stared into the abyss –

- and the abyss, looking awfully cheerful, beamed back.

"Young master D'eath I suppose?" a young boy bounced out, a tiny hand extended to Edward, who just stared mutely for a few moments. The white scholar's robe and duck pants (that the Guild made all the Scholarship Boys wear up to third year), coupled with his mop of blonde curls and pretty little face, brought to mind one of those odd baby angels that hang about in the backgrounds of paintings. He looked no older than about eight or nine and small even for that, but Edward reasoned he must at least be a first year.

The boy continued, unabashed "Did I get that right?" he repeated with gusto "DEETH, yes? I researched it beforehand," he paused, taking on a tone one might adopt when reading a dictionary aloud "_believed to be originally an occupational name, from the town pageants wherein roles were lifelong and passed down through generations – in this case, the role in question being that of __**Death**__…"_

Edward found himself distracted, unable to listen, instead recalling a porcelain doll of his mother's – her most prized possession. It was sat on the table in the landing, and when young Edward would dare to venture out of his room at night, he would see it there, staring out at him. It was a pretty little thing, with perfect little curls, a cheerful smile, and big pretty eyes – pretty and strange and horrifying eyes that stared endlessly, to young Edward's mind giving the unsettling impression of both looking at nothing and seeing everything. That wretched creature haunted his childhood dreams – of course now he was much too grown-up now to be afraid of dolls. Though – and of course he would never admit this, when he first clapped eyes on that happy little face from behind the door, a familiar chill ran down his spine.

"… And I am nothing if not thorough." the boy finished as Edward managed to pull himself together.

"Hum?"

"But, of course, you probably know all of this already! Shall I help with your bags, Master Deeth?" the boy smiled helpfully, cocking his head to one side. Edward shuddered silently, picking his bags up a little too quickly and answering "No thankyou."

Though, he thought to himself, he had been told the boy he was to share his room with was in a similar situation to his own: born into a good family (his father an alumni of the Guild) he was taken in after being orphaned at a young age. Perhaps he was being silly – this, after all, was someone who could understand his plight.

"That is to say, I think I can manage by myself," he murmured apologetically "Forgive me, you must be my new roommate. Mister -?" he hesitated. Calling a small child _Mister_ just seemed wrong.

The boy giggled "Jonathan will do fine," he paused "Or… or Johnny? The other boys call me _the little mental one _but I'd rather prefer if you didn't, if it's all the same to you."

"All right,"

"Can I call you Edward?" he leaned forward, eyes wide.

"…If you wish,"

"Splendid," Johnny clapped his hands together gleefully as Edward pulled his luggage through the doorway. He peered around, but there wasn't much to see – a little matchbox of a room with two slivers of beds (that looked very much like someone had split a normal-sized single bed in two).

"Eddie?"

_Eddie?_ _How did we suddenly go from Mister D'eath to Eddie? _No one had ever called him _Eddie_. In fact, he highly doubted that _anyone_ in the (once) Great House of D'Eath had ever gone by something as undignified as _Eddie_. He turned to glare at the boy, but was caught off-guard when he was met with horrible doll-eyes glistening with a hint of tears, and a sweet and rather terrifying smile.

"They've never allowed me have a roommate before. Dr. Cruces said it's a big responsibility, and that I must not, under any circumstances, practice inhumation on you." He chirped, perfectly ingenuously.

"I said I would try my very best."


End file.
